Falar de frango

Rotisserie Portugalia takes it up a notch in
the battle of roasted chickens

by BARTEK KOMOROWSKI

My first experience at Rotisserie Portugalia was somewhat traumatic. It was Saturday and I was looking forward to having what a friend had told me a few days earlier was the best barbecued chicken in town. I innocently walked into the non-descript corner storefront with a Portuguese flag above the door and asked for a couple of grilled chickens, which I could see tantalizingly roasting over the charcoal pit behind the counter. The man at the counter gave me a look that combined amusement, contempt and pity and sternly said that he had no frango (that’s chicken in Portuguese) for me. He told me I should have called the previous morning. I promptly exited, empty handed and embarrassed.

I was quite surprised to discover, on a recent cruise down the Rachel bike path, that Portugalia had added a small but attractive seating area next door to the grill counter. How could a place that requires takeout orders to be placed hours or days in advance make food to be eaten in on order? Based on a recent visit, apparently they have found a way.

The new dining area, adjacent to the old premises, is spartan and dimly lit—tasteful overall, except for the wall on the far side of the restaurant, which features a giant television and a somewhat tacky mural depicting Rachel Street in days of yore. However, the cool thing about the mural is that the bathroom doors are hidden therein. Push on the wall near the bar and see it cave in to reveal one of the two bathrooms!

I went to Portugalia with my friend Rankin for an early Sunday dinner. We were on the return leg of a long bicycle journey to NDG and were ravenously hungry. We thus ordered three appetizers to share: pork escalopettes, ribs and cod fritters. The escalopettes arrived first (two pieces for $6, also available as a main). They pleased us immensely: they were moist and well-seasoned, had a nice spicy bite from the chili flakes sprinkled over them, and had a pleasant charcoal signature. Next came the ribs (four ribs for $5, also available as a main). These proved to be quite satisfying, though not exceptional. Like the escalopettes, they were moist, well-seasoned, slightly spicy and a bit smoky. They were a little bit on the tough side, however.

The cod fritters (four for $8.75, appetizer only) came just as we were licking the salty rib juices off of our fingers. These were surprisingly good—fried in fresh oil, perfectly golden brown and crispy on the outside, soft and almost creamy on the inside. It’s a shame that they were so expensive—four little fritters for almost nine bucks is a bit steep.

For mains, we both got a quarter chicken from the leg section. Each chicken leg ($7.50) was accompanied by a simple salad and a pile of thin-cut French fries. My expectations were high—chicken is supposed to be the Rotisserie Portugalia’s specialty, and opinion polls (such as the Mirror’s annual Best of Montreal) consistently rank it as the best in town. Verdict: the chicken was quite good—moist and pleasantly salty with a nice charcoal aroma—but not the best in town in Rankin’s and my opinion.

That distinction, we both agreed, belongs to Romados, another Portuguese barbecue counter just a few blocks down Rachel, where the chickens are bigger, moister and slathered in a delightful, oily piri-piri chili sauce. The fries are also better at Romados—cut thick and seasoned with a mysterious and addictive mix of herbs and spices. The problem with Romados is that they will make you wait in line for half an hour to an hour—sometimes even if you’ve phoned in your order. If you want to eat in, you’ll have to contend with consuming your chicken out of a Styrofoam box with plastic utensils under the glare of fluorescent lights as bright as the sun. And you will not be allowed to drink any alcohol.

Not so at Portugalia—you sit comfortably at a table, to which your chicken will be delivered on a ceramic plate and with real cutlery after only a short wait. And best of all, you get to wash it down with a pint of Labatt 50 from the tap. Or a Coke at the correct temperature, as Rankin did.